I dream

I dream

That I am alone
That I can’t dial the phone
That my teeth are falling out
That I run away
That there’s a weight on my chest
That you walk away
I dream that I can’t move
That I am having sex
I dream that I fail
That I’m back home
That time hasn’t passed
That everyone is gone.
I dream about me
But mostly, I dream about you.
I dream of your kiss
But really, I dream about love.


I’ve already dated you

I’ve already dated you
Except your name was Hector
And I loved you more than the Sun
Even when I wasn’t the only
Woman in your life
I would’ve happily given you mine.
I’ve already dated you
Except your name was Angel
And you gave me more rules
Than Monopoly, Scrabble, and Sorry combined
Still, that wasn’t enough
Until I said goodbye.

I’ve already dated you

Actually, I didn’t.
Your name was George
And you did everything
Short of voodoo
To possess me and my time.
I’ve already dated you
Except you were Jose
And although everything was fine
You still held back
For some (bullshit)
Unknown sign.
I already dated you, Mark.
And every time I think of your name
I have to squeeze my eyes
To hold back the pain.
I’ve already dated you
Your name is Angel and Hector and Mark and Jose
And all the Saints combined.
I’ve already dated you
It doesn’t matter your name
I’ve already dated you.

I wont do it again. 


(I wrote this back in high school. Published in the Metro Bridge, February 2001)

(PS Don’t judge me to harshly, I was 16 and the rose-colored glasses were still firmly on).

I want him to be nice
And sweet
And to hold me like no one before
I want his smile to prove my safety
And his eyes to prove his love
I want him to be strong
Because I am weak
I want him to be certain
Because I am not
I want him to be positive
Bringing laughter despite my tears
I want his joy to
Let me know he is here
I want to be able
To bear my soul to him
And for him to learn everything it holds
I want him to touch me
And feel the body he now owns
I want him to inhale me
To enjoy me
To drink me
To spend hours learning every inch of
My body an what it is capable of
I want his temper to be
As strong as his mind
But he will be fair
More like the father figure I never had
I want to be able to close my eyes
And lose myself in him
And to fill all my six senses
With his presence
I want him to be the wings
That will help me fly
I want him to always
Challenge me with his mind
I want to be able to trust
My judgement when it comes to him
I want to be with him
And not be afraid of what comes next
But trust him completely
With my all
I want to be able to fill my head
With only images of him and his voice
To be able to kiss
Bite and love him roughly
Or with all the time in the world
But most of all
I want to be his pillar
Like he will be my stepping stone
And to be there when he is sick
And to be his pride when it falls
I want to cry
And laugh
And plead
And dance with him
And share with him what
I know
That is what I want
Most of all.


I caught myself writing a poem today

What do I do? What do I do?

completely out of the blue
What is that? Is that you?
I wrote it down with paper and pen
What do I do? How can this be?
and hid it in my shoe.
My heart has got the best of me.


time does not stop.

it continues past love, past pain, past experience.
a constant reminder of our own mortality with the thumping of our hearts.
you would think that time would have the decency to stop during the most dire situations,
and let us pay some semblance of respect.
let us mourn our loss
let us capture the moment and savor it, taste the reality of the moment, roll it on our tongues and say, ” I understand.”
but time does not stop.
it’s a constant reminder between moon phases
when the leaves turn and the first snow starts to fall.
time is constant,
the one variable that remains the same in this experiment.
even after death time continues.
the body decomposes while time moves on.
And you lay there
our enemy is time.


(old poem from 2006)
I’m the girl who’s always late,
waiting at the bus stop
with everything I own strapped to my back.

And sometimes it rains.

I burn my fingers when I cook.
My yellow rice comes out orange and I put ketchup on everything.
Sometimes I pay my bills late.

Often I press ignore when my father calls,
and I always hope its someone else calling,
not you, Dad, because you didn’t love me when you should’ve.
I want someone who can.

I cry when I read sad stories
and laugh to myself when I think no one is watching.
Sometimes I foget myself and talk too much about sex.
I never say the right thing or laugh at the right time.
I don’t have the answer and I over react.
But once in a while I get it right.